Stuff and Things, and Things and Stuff

Lāmentum - Chapter Two

Based on: Sherlock

AU story

Rating: PG-13 (to be safe)

Pairings: Eventual Sherlock/John, most likely.

Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a psychiatric doctor at a London mental hospital, who takes interest in the most mentally insane patients, while frustrating his ‘inferior’ coworkers. Given a case for an issue of PTSD has destroyed the patient’s and others’ lives, he finds himself acquainted with a man who not only wants his life and freedom back, but wants Sherlock to have something he never knew he was lacking. John Watson is turning out to be a more engaging patient than Sherlock originally thought.

Chapter One

Chapter Two: HERE

Chapter Three

It’s another week before Sherlock finally attempts to discuss the reason why John was admitted.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Sherlock asks. He takes mental note of John’s demeanor. He’s unsettled. He’s not comfortable, and seems to making no effort to get comfortable. He sits hunched over in the chair, wringing his hands.

“Because I’m a loony,” he answers.

“I mean, what action brought you here?” Sherlock clarifies without hesitation.

John goes silent, staring at the floor. He has no desire to answer the question.

“Do you believe that you need the treatment that we’re trying to give you?”

Sherlock is met with silence again.

“Now that I have the required questions out of the way, I can ask how you and your sister are getting along,” Sherlock says, breaking away from what he’s instructed to ask all patients.

“And how did you deduce that I have a sister?” John asks, looking up at the man who’s been more accommodating than the nurses enforcing routine.

“Actually, I just read your file.”

John lets out a short laugh of amusement at that. “She’s… kind to me. Worries a lot about me. She’s a bit of an alcoholic at times, so I also worry about her,” he basically explains.

“Has she visited you here yet?” Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head. “No… I think she’s been taking comfort in the bottle lately… After all that happened. So money is a bit tight right now for her.”

“Did she attend your court cases?”

John goes silent again, a sullen look crossing his face. He’s silent for a little while, but then finally speaks up again. “No… She couldn’t bring herself to…”

“Has she called you lately?”

“Twice.”

John grows quiet again. He seems a bit averse to volunteering any information or conversation of his own. Sherlock can tell that the environment is getting to him. Not just this room, but also the facility in general. He’s grown quieter and more reserved over the past week.

“John… you’re not just like all of the other people here.”

John’s gaze flicks up to Sherlock as his expression hardens. “I know that.”

-The display of grief makes more demands than grief itself. How few men are sad in their own company.-

The next day, Sherlock walks around the common area. The patients are all doing their own little activities, chatting about odd things, watching the telly, or just sitting around silently. Mrs. Ferriston is following around a patient that repetitively paces around rooms, telling him all about the dinosaurs that changed her life. Sherlock spots John standing away from everyone else, looking out the window.

Sherlock walks over to join him, standing beside his patient in silence. Through the bars of the window is a view of the building’s enclosed backyard. Beyond its walls, the skyline of London can be seen. The Thames isn’t incredibly far away.

“Do the windows have to have bars over them?” John asks.

“Yes. It’s for the safety of everyone.”

“… You mean the people… outside? You’re protecting them from us…” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. With your military experience, I’m willing to bet you could easily break a window with a chair.”

“The chairs are made of plastic…”

“I’m still willing to bet you’re quite capable.”

John manages to crack a slight smile, though it has a hint of sorrow.

Sherlock pauses before he finally speaks again. “I wish there weren’t bars. It makes this place seem so much more like a prison.”

“That’s because it is.”

-Don’t make best friends with a melancholy sad soul. They are always heavily loaded, and you must bear half.-

It’s another night where Sherlock stays in the facility to review files, write about his deductions and experiences with patients, and keep an eye on the monitors. There are cameras in each room, so that everyone can easily be observed during sleeping hours. It’s another fairly normal overnight stay for Sherlock. He has so many things to think about, his mind racing too much to let him sleep.

Robert Sommers’ case is being reviewed. Some of the doctors believe that he’s capable of being discharged. He’s ready to reenter society, where he will stay in a halfway home until the job he will be given allows him to live on his own. Sherlock believes that he’s not ready. He still has an odd twitch whenever the subject of cars is brought up in his therapy sessions. He’s not over the car crash that he was in, that caused the death of his brother and brother’s wife. London is too full of cars for him to function normally again. Maybe if he could-

Sherlock sighs as the lights flicker a bit. A thunder and lightening storm is beginning to roll through. He can hear the steady sound of rain start to pelt the windows of the office. It gets a little heavier as the thunder becomes louder. Sherlock wonders if he should call the maintenance staff downstairs to ready the power generator, just in case. Unfortunately, they’re more irritable on the night shift than he is.

He glances at the clock, seeing the minute hand hit twelve. It’s now 2am. Time to write down quick status updates on the patients, always to be done every hour on the hour. Sherlock pulls out the clipboard from the large desk that the monitors are set up on. Taking the cap off the attached pen, he turns his attention to the numerous small screens in front of him as there’s a bright flash from outside. A clap of thunder follows soon after, almost seeming to shake the building.

Brown, sleeping, 4 hours. Hale, sleeping, restrained, 5 hours. Norton, sleeping, 3 1/2 hours. Ferriston, sleeping, 4 hours. Wright, sleeping, 6 hours. Watson…

Sherlock leans forward a little, watching John toss and turns restlessly. He’s asleep… He seems to be. Sherlock stands up, setting the clipboard down. He doesn’t hesitate to leave the room and head towards the bedrooms. About four doors down on the left, he stops. He pulls the ring of keys off his belt to unlock door. Quietly swinging it open, he steps inside. He closes it enough to leave it cracked open for a little bit of light, then walks the short distance to stand beside John’s bed.

The ex-army doctor is shaking, writhing in his sleep whenever the thunder sounds out from through the window. The flashes of lightning are also penetrating the barred glass.

Sherlock jumps a little as John suddenly sits up, his eyes opening wide in terror. Before he can do anything about it, John gets up and grabs Sherlock. He forces his psychiatrist down to the ground and shoves him under the bed. Sherlock manages to keep his head from banging into the doorframe as he gets under. John doesn’t join him, instead blocking the opening underneath the bed, as if sheltering Sherlock from bombs, shrapnel, or whatever he is imagining at the moment. He has broken out into a cold sweat as he hyperventilates.

Sherlock watches him for a while as the storm persists. Despite what other doctors may say, he has always believes the theory that trying to stop war flashbacks forcefully is more detrimental than helpful to mental health.

After a minute, Sherlock speaks up in a calm and even tone. “Your name is John Watson. You were an army doctor. You were discharged after an injury and illness. You are now in London. You’re being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. John… This is a thunder and lightening storm. You are no longer in Afghanistan. You are safe.”

His patient seems to calm down a little, his breathing evening out a bit.

“John Watson. You are safe. You aren’t involved in the war anymore. You are in London. You are safe right now.”

John lets out a shaky sigh, his eyes closing halfway. Despite the storm continuing its loud path through the city, he is calming down. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock knows that now he remembers what’s going on.

He carefully pushes John away from the opening leading to under the bed, being careful not to startle him. He manages to create enough space to crawl over John. Crouching on the ground beside him now, Sherlock lifts him into a sitting position. John complies, feeling utterly exhausted from the stress-inducing flashback. Sherlock gets up, lifting John with him. It takes a bit of effort and care, but Sherlock manages to get him back into bed.

John stares at the ceiling above him as Sherlock pulls the blankets over him. He walks over to the sink area in the room, retrieving a washcloth, running a little bit of water over it. After wringing it out, he comes back to stand by John’s bedside. He gingerly wipes the sweat off of John’s face and neck, John staring at Sherlock.

“Go back to sleep. You’re fine now,” Sherlock reassures him. John nods a little, closing his eyes. The claps of thunder are starting to recede into the distance a little. After making sure his patient is actually resting, he leaves the room. He closes the door behind himself, locking it and then reattaching the keys to his belt. Sherlock walks back towards the office, dropping the washcloth into a laundry cart nearby as he passes it.

-Next to a lost battle, nothing is so sad as a battle that has been won.-

“I saw the video of last night.”

Sherlock ignores him, typing up what will soon be an update to his website on the science of deduction.

“I’m not the only one who’s seen it.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, considering putting a new puzzle on the website.

“Damnit, Sherlock, will you listen to me?” Lestrade is frustrated by Sherlock’s lack of response. He’s used to this sort of treatment, despite that. Trying to get the doctor to listen to issues he’s causing is like getting a child to eat vegetables sometimes.

“I full well know what I did last night, Lestrade. After all, I was there.” Sherlock tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow as he continues to stare at the computer screen.

“You know the standard procedures. First of all, you left the door open.”

“Cracked open.”

“Then you went along with Dr. Watson’s flashback.”

“You should keep up on modern psychology discoveries. I was merely testing a theory.”

“You didn’t sedate him during or afterwards.”

“He doesn’t need that.”

“You didn’t strap him down after getting him back into bed.”

“The flashback was over. He didn’t need that, either.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” Lestrade is very close to being furious right now. “You need to follow procedures more often! It’s hard enough convincing the board to keep you here, despite the fact that you don’t even have a degree, let alone a Ph.D to treat these people.”

“Yet I produce better results than the rest of the staff here.” Sherlock states the obvious. He isn’t wrong about that. Not to mention that he is the first person many of the other doctors go to for consultations, though they were often very secretive about doing so.

“You can at least take off your scarf. I’m glad I was able to convince you not to wear that peacoat, but the scarf is a hazard. You can be choked with it if someone grabs it the right way.” This is a problem that is often brought up. It’s one of the minor things that the board likes to nitpick about Sherlock. Though it’s a futile effort to convince Sherlock to stop wearing it.

“Not taking it off.”

“Just… be careful, Sherlock. You’re treading dangerous waters here. We have standards and systems to follow. If you manage to make a large mistake, there’s not a damn thing I can do to get you out of trouble. You’ll be gone in no time.” Lestrade walks out, not wanting to argue anymore.

Sherlock updates his website.

-The sad truth is that excellence makes people nervous.-

“Do you remember when you had your last flashback?”

“It was last night.”

Sherlock sighs. “Before that.”

John looks away. “Only what it caused.”

“What would you say it caused?”

“… Misery. Anger.”

“For you?”

“… For everyone involved.”